#Bloody Parrot

[bowserplush]

You know as ironic as it is

Support workers are meant to make me be able to access life better

All they’ve done is made me want to hermit more

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - non/con, manipulation, mentions of breeding, and unbalanced power dynamics.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who's ecstatic the day his owner, Suguru, brings you home. He's the pinnacle of a spoiled pet, constantly showered in toys and treats and affection, but his owner's a busy man, and he tends to sulk when left home alone. He's had other companions before, another leopard hybrid who nearly killed him before being released back into the wild and a black panther who somehow proved to be a worse influence on Satoru than Satoru was on her, but you're supposed to be more permanent solution, another hosuepet to keep him company when Suguru can't. You're a sweet little housecat, all wide-eyes and raised ears, but still, Suguru wouldn't be surprised if you're begging to go back to the shelter less than an hour after meeting your new roommate.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who falls in love with you immediately. Suguru practically has to keep him in a chokehold while you explore your new home, eventually curling up on your new bed. Satoru's on top of you as soon as he gets loose, purring obnoxiously while he runs his bristled tongue over your cheek. Suguru's half-convinced that your first day's going to end with bloody claws and bandages, but you only nuzzle into his chest and knead at the blankets underneath you. Satoru's a difficult cat to put up with, and Suguru's relieved that you, at least, find him tolerable.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who's absolutely massive compared to you. The tips of your pointed ears barely reach his collarbones, and your wrist is only as thick as his fluffy tail. His favorite hobby quickly becomes carrying you from room to room despite your softly mewled protests, and he's not happy unless he's pressed against you as closely as possible. He used to force himself into Suguru's lap whenever possible, but now, he's unbearable unless you're sitting pretty in his. He doesn't even complain when you lose your temper and dig your little fangs (barely half the size of his - a poor imitation of a real predator's) into his arm, just grinning as he tugs at your ears and pinches your cheeks. He's not exactly a wild animal, but he's still at the top of his food chain. You're not quite a mouse, but you might as well be, compared to him.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who's calling you his mate after less than a full month. You don't know what it means, often parroting it back as more of a question than a term of endearment, and Suguru just brushes it off as Satoru being deliberately irritating. He keeps it up, though. even after you start refusing to respond to it.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who starts introducing you to new "games". You know you don't stand a chance against him, but somehow, he always manages to goad you into roughhousing, into squirming as he pins you under his full weight. He likes to dangle things above your head, to see how long it takes your instincts to get the best of you before your chest is pressed against his and you're pouting so adorably as you jump and bat at his hand. Sometimes, when you fall asleep mid-grooming session, he'll let his mouth wander lower than it should, and you'll wake up to his tongue lapping over your chest, his face buried between your thighs in a way that leaves you teary-eyed and warm. You've tried to tell Suguru, but you always get embarrassed and end up mumbling something as vague as 'Satoru's being mean to me, again.' In the end, Satoru only ever gets a slap on the wrist and a new reason to tease you, next time Suguru turns his back.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who fucks you whenever Suguru isn't home. He planned on waiting for your first heat (delayed by your shelter suppressants and the stress of a new home), and he knows he's not supposed to, but he just can't get enough of having your smaller body curled up underneath his, your tail thrashing from side to side as he lazily rolls his hips against yours. You tend to whine, at first, to go on and on about how weird it feels and how much it hurts, but as soon he gets his cock inside of you, all those complaints tend to go away. It's almost funny, how easily your stupid little kitty mind gets all hazy and cockdrunk. He always loves you, but he loves you most when you're drooling and purring for his cum, begging him to breed you properly between hitched moans.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who's not even mad when Suguru catches him bouncing your half-conscious, fucked-out body on his cock. He wants to be the best possible mate for you, and he couldn't do that if he wasn't willing to show you off <3

[shotmrmiller]

1.8k of what was supposed to be a drabble, oops. same au as this just different situation.

there he is.

the titan the crowd calls Ghost. a creature who seemed to have crawled out of the abyss itself, rage etched into the very marrow of his bones. scars crisscross his arms, chest, and back— souvenirs of battles both won and lost. no one knows much about him. no real name, no past, no future. blank.

a void.

just like his sunken eyes, the only thing anyone can see from behind the midnight black skull balaclava that clings to his face like a second skin. (does he even remember what he looks like underneath?) he stands in front of the club's owner in ragged clothing: a tattered wifebeater that's been stitched, torn, and re-stitched. his pants have strained seams and patched knees. his boots are high cut, made of worn, scuffed leather with laces in the front, pulled tight. functional.

he's terrifying. most here come to fight for glory, for redemption, for escape. not he, though. reverent whispers claim this is all he knows. that he fights like a cornered, wounded beast, with no discipline nor strategy. just primal hunger and unmatched ferocity.

and that's who your idiotic, egotistical boyfriend wants to fight. granted, he's a pretty damn good boxer. not that you'd know much about that, you're simply parroting what you've heard his coach say. but this isn't boxing. no one here wears a padded helmet, with comfortable gloves and silky shorts. the fellow with the mohawk currently fighting isn't even wearing a mouthguard, for fuck's sake.

there are no fucking rules, no referees, no honor, no mercy.

your shoulders rise up to your ears as you tense at a nasty blow the pretty one you've come to learn is named gaz gives mr. mohawk. it splits his lip instantaneously, crimson dribbling down his chin and onto his barrel chest. he should be in pain, but there's only a glint of madness in those bright blue eyes of his. the crazed smile he gives gaz is all blood-stained teeth.

your boyfriend taps you on your shoulder, making you jump. "i'm gonna go talk to mr. price now that he's no longer busy."

what?

"no! you can't be serious!" the metal chair you were seated on screeches as you shoot up and run after him, feet slipping on the mud-slicked floor. "hey! wait!"

he reaches the tall, burly man(broker?) with the antiquated mutton-chop beard before you do. the tailored suit clings to his large frame, molding to his mountainous shoulders and tapered waist. his polished shoes are pristine, unlike the surface he's standing on that's littered with wager slips and sodden with cheap beer.

"don't. be smart, fight smart. you can't possibly— did you see the way the one with the mohawk took a hit to the face without flinching? he's insane! they all are!" you flick your eyes to mr. price. "no offense."

he chuckles low. "none taken, sweetheart. soap's a vigorous man, is all."

soap. gaz. ghost. they've all got bloody fighting nicknames. meanwhile, the only thing your boyfriend's ever been called is dearie by his elderly neighbor.

"your pretty girl's right. i'd steer clear of the pit. this ain't no place for a sheltered bloke such as yourself." his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, yet it felt like a facade. the evenness of his tone had dread crawling up your spine.

"boss." you squeak at the deep voice that comes from beside you— accent thick on his tongue.

mr. price waves a hand dismissively, the rings that adorn his fingers glinting under the dim light of the overhead lamps. "it's nothin' but a couple a'folk placin' their bets."

the look of unfettered stupidity flashes on your boyfriend's face as he turns his head and realizes just who mr. price was talking to. "if it isn't the masked specter himself."

stupid. stupid stupid stupid. god, your boyfriend came in one piece but he's going to leave in bloody pieces if you don't stop him. "stop," you hiss. "this ridiculous stint of yours is over." as is this sorry excuse of a relationship. he'd been a sweet guy at some point, or maybe you were just blinded by his good looks. "sorry for the bother, mr. price. we'll be taking our leave." tugging on your boyfriend's sleeve, you try to lead him away but he stays anchored in place, posturing like a peacock; chest out, shoulders squared and head held high.

he looks at ghost as he challenges him. "name your price. anything, i can meet."

how he can be so blasé in the presence of this bastion is beyond you. ghost stands tall, his shadow engulfing you whole. you can feel the weight of his presence, a crushing force pressing against your sternum. he doesn't speak; and honestly, he doesn't have to. ghost's silence spoke volumes.

"he's not interested, see? let's just go before we're thrown out on our arses."

but your boyfriend doesn't concede. if anything, it only adds fuel to the fire. "not good enough for you? eh? is that it? think yourself untouchable just because you're king of the underbelly?" he goads.

your cheeks are hot, scalding with embarrassment. he's starting to garner attention from the audience that's supposed to be watching the current fight.

and then ghost breaks said silence. "i don't want your money." his rich voice reverberates through bone and marrow; it rattles your very core. "you didn't work hard for it, i can tell. golden spoon runt."

your boyfriend's eyes ignite with anger. for a moment, you thought he was going to swing on the spot, but then, like a wisp of smoke, it dissipated. his fists unclench, his jaw relaxes. "what do you want, then?" he questions.

ghost tips his head your way as he keeps his gaze on your boyfriend. "her. i win, she's mine."

you should've known your now ex would agree. nothing would keep him from accomplishing his goals of 'putting the big dog down' as he so eloquently put it. now you're firmly sat right next to price on the stands (because you will not be calling him john anytime soon, no matter how many times he corrects you) essentially as his hostage.

"nothing personal, sweetheart. i'm a businessman, after all, and the prize walkin' out the front door would be bad for business. hope you understand."

no, you don't. so you tell him as such.

"tha's alright. simon'll take good care of ya, i promise."

"is there any particular reason you're so cocksure of your simon winning?" you manage to ask, your voice fragile.

he takes a thick inhale of his cigar before answering. "unfortunately for you, i've seen it all— the broken bones, shattered dreams, and—" you watch tendrils of smoke unfurl from his mouth, "adversaries who never walked back out."

spectators have already begun to huddle around the cage, puffing on cheap cigarettes. they all look desperate, eyes gleaming with greed. this time the one collecting wagers is a blonde woman, older in age, with her hair in a low bun and a puffer vest. "that your wife?"

he curls a large hand around my shoulder before twisting to look at— "laswell? no. don't swing tha' way." price gives you a gentle squeeze.

oh. you can feel warmth creeping up your neck. "sorry. didn't mean to- er. i didn't know."

"'s'alrigh'. her wife's nice enough. you'll like 'er.'' her wife? the confusion must've shown because he rumbles out a laugh. "no. it'd be me barkin' up the wrong tree. i—" he tightens the grip on your shoulder, "like whatever's pretty to look at." his words from before resounded in your head.

'your pretty girl's right...'

the heat that'd receded now stung the tips of your ears. whatever words you want to say are lodged in your throat but thankfully, you're saved by the bell. literally.

the rusty thing tolls and the crowd hushes their voices and stills their restless shuffling. first walks in your ex (idiot), looking exactly like what ghost had called him earlier— a golden spoon child. his shorts are glossy, even under the flickering, sickly light that falls over the cage. his boxing gloves are a vibrant red, pristine as if right out of the box. (you don't remember soap getting his pretty face broken by hands with gloves, but whatever.) he looks perfect, like something out of a hollywood movie.

and so out of place.

unlike ghost who's just stepped into the ring— who commands the attention of all within the hazy room. he fits right in with the rats who scurry around in the bowels of the city. he moves like the shadows that cling to the dark corners, his steps silent as whispers. a haunted being— one the world above with its neon signs and bustling crowds has long forgotten— has made his home down here.

ghost bumps his mma gloves with your ex's boxing ones, in a show of surprising sportsmanship.

the bell tolls once again, and the fight begins.

and just as quickly as it began, it ended. you blink, momentarily displaced, because there is no way what just happened is real. there hadn't been no real fight. it'd been one devastating blow to the side of your ex's jaw that ended everything. he hadn't stood a chance. it—

"'s done. sorry, love. but simon's headin' this way to claim his prize." price gives you a sympathetic pat to your back. "i swear it on my life he won't harm a hair on your head."

what?

ghost barrels through the roaring crowd and comes to a stop before you. "you're with me, now. best get used to it." shock blurs your vision, or maybe it's the fact that you've been hoisted up and thrown over a shoulder that did it.

it doesn't matter. the one you came here with is currently lying limp on the stained mat, his mouth hanging open a little awkwardly. is he broken? you're put down on a bench in a large dressing room that has only one tall locker in it with a tiny ghost sticker on the front.

"did you... is he dead?" you ask, pulse quickening.

"no. either dislocated or broke tha' jaw of 'is only."

you sputter when metal clinks on the surface of the wooden table he's currently leaning his weight against. dusters? "you used fucking dusters?"

he turns his head and looks at you, piercing and intense. "you and i both know i didn't need anythin' to knock his teeth down his throat, isn't tha' right, pet? eh?"

his knuckles are calloused and heavily scarred, the little finger bent at an angle even when straight. "don't worry 'bout him, you're with me, now." he shrugs on a plain, black jacket and heads for the door. "try to leave and i'll jus' find you again. don't make this any harder than it has to be."

welcome to the rat king's domain, sweetheart.

[alnilaem]

NEED to know what happens after butcher!Simon beat the guy to pulp 😭 Does reader ends up insisting to tend his split and bloody knuckles hence bringing him into her apartment and Simon just decides that it's his second home now. Cause wdym it's not? She practically invited him in?? He's her problem now, like a stray.

“and Simon just decides that it’s his second home now / he’s her problem now, like a stray”

OHHHHH MY GOD????? SO FUCKING TRUE ANON!!!

-

When the pounding had petered out, you weren’t allowed to leave your flat. Simon’s parlance held an undercurrent of finality, so you listened. Listened to the soft rustling and thudding on the other side of your door, the grunts of labour let out by him. And when he was done, when only a crude, mulberry outline of blood coagulated into the carpet outside of his flat, you called him inside. 

You decided to refrain from asking any questions.

You just seated Simon at your dining table—which he seemed to giant—and brought out the first-aid kit from under your sink. The mellow, winking light of your kitchen flutters over the split skin of Simon’s knuckles as you clean them out. He doesn’t wince and doesn’t flinch. The only reason his fingers twitch is to curl them further into your palm, stealing your warmth.

The silence is snapped with your quiet question. “What if someone reports you?”

“They won’t, Trouble,” Simon mumbles. “They know who I am.”

Your deluged brain catches onto only one word. Lazy and heavy how it slips past Simon’s lips, pools into his mask. Your eyes flicker up, skittish. “Trouble?”

“Seem to bring it with ya,” he shrugs. Simon leans back in your chair, the fleeceback of his trackies tightening around his thick thighs. “Fitting, innit?”

A sound—somewhere between sheepish and bemused—peals out of you. It’s parroted by Simon, taking the form of an almost-chuckle, but is quickly succeeded by a sharp wince. His face twisting like the tail of a kite, his eyes squeezing shut. 

“Simon?”

He grunts. His crystalline curls stiffly sway as he shakes his head. “Fucker punched me. Landed on my lip.”

It’s an undertaken desire that tells you to lean forward and unhook Simon’s mask off his ear. You have the inkling he’ll maul you if you try, but truthfully, you know that Simon won’t bite the hand that feeds him. 

He’s pliant and malleable under your touch. Almost kittening into your palm, an obedient dog as you loosen Simon’s mask from his chin, letting it dangle from his cauliflower ear—a materialisation of his dubious past—and brush against his jaw.

A hint of fear ephemerally colours Simon’s eyes. He’s naked, bare, under your gaze. A confessor at the feet of an apostle, praying for proclaimed absolution. Hoping you’ll overlook his scars and dimpled skin, hoping you’ll take him in for the stray he is. 

You reach out, grazing Simon’s face. Raising a cotton wad to his busted, thin lips. It permeates the elements of a kiss. Your gauze against his puckered lips, soaking him up, his blood, into your bandage. 

Simon’s a lost dog. He keeps coming back. Though it reads like it, it isn’t entitlement. It’s taking possession of you.

It’s simple, really. Simon just wants to be pet, and he just wants to please.

[lizardsfromspace]

Why is just about every online radical group virulently sex-negative now? And in identical ways. You don't have, like, communists - on the whole, some do, tbc - framing their criticism of porn in terms of worker exploitation. They're parroting the same talking points about "porn addiction" TERFs do, and they're parroting the same talking points evangelicals do, etc.

I say sex-negative instead of anti-porn since while they claim to be the latter they seem to believe online porn is like, some conspiracy to rot the minds of everyone, and they react to entirely normal examples of sexuality by screaming bloody murder about how the poster is a porn-brained addict who should die. And I mean really normal. As in, "someone expressing attraction" normal. It's weird to see how widespread this is now across the entire spectrum

[mellosdrawings]

Content warnings, please mind the tags

A habit inherited from parents

When self-preservation comes at a price.

[PREV] - [NEXT]

Alright alright, I have THOUGHTS ok?! So lemme develop a bit about this AU, because it's going to be a semi long series. First some warnings:

It will be "hurt no comfort" for quite some time before I begin being nicer to them

MOST ARTS FROM THIS SERIES ARE GOING TO BE BLOODY/DARK, PLEASE MIND THE TAGS

Now actual infos:

It is Scarabia/Scalding Sands-only AU (for now, might be subject to change)

Only about 20% of the population has no wings, most everybody else is born with wings

The bigger/more colorful wings come from "good lineage" and tend to indicate nobility

The Asim family possesses very colorful parrot wings, though they are not the biggest

The Viper family possesses [redacted] wings, but they cannot keep them so as to not shadow the Asim

Wings grow back no matter how many times one cuts them

Kalim is not aware the Viper family do have wings and just assumes they are born without

I might add more notes with the next arts.

[bridenore]

HD eight year fic recs : 20k to 30k words

Here are a few drarry eight year fic recs that are between 20k and 30k words. Posted in alphabetical order, as always.

You can access my rec lists for eight year fics that have less than 10k words here and between 10k and 20k here.

12 Days of What The Fuck by @bixgirl1 [26k]

When Potter starts paying unusual amounts of attention to Draco as the holidays draw nearer, Draco can’t figure out where it’s coming from—possibly because he’s gone stupid from all the fantastic sex. But what happens when he finds out that there may be another motive behind Potter’s sudden interest? Or: A fic in which Potter is hotter than Draco ever let himself admit, Draco didn’t fill out that fucking form, and Pansy may or may not lose all of her hair.

1,000 Points From Gryffindor by @blithelybonny [25k]

The story of how Harry Potter single-handedly lost Gryffindor the House Cup while attempting to have a “normal” year at Hogwarts. Featuring Harry’s suspicious nature turned up to eleven again, a new DADA teacher who is so not here for Harry’s fame, multiple detentions, Slytherins being sneaky, Hufflepuffs being sneakier, and the mystery of Draco Malfoy’s hoodie because seriously Hermione who gave that to him and is he wearing it just to torment me? This is ridiculous!

Dear Diary by AWickedMemory [20k]

 // This can’t possibly go worse than the last time I kept a diary. // After the war, Harry picks up a journal to write in… and it writes back. Luckily, it’s not a Horcrux on the other end this time.

Don’t mind if I keep your tie (And your heart, babe) by Ingi [21k]

The Eighth year common room has a parrot in it, courtesy of McGonagall and her mad search for interhouse bonding. Most of the time, it’s just there, until one day it repeats “Potter has a damn fine arse.” And the Slytherins know exactly who the parrot’s mimicking… Draco is not amused.

Heartache by @bixgirl1 [25k]

 “Harry doesn’t think about Malfoy anymore.  Not really.  Not intentionally. What if the one person you least expect is the only one who really understands what you’ve gone through?

Hungry by birdsofshore [24k]

The first thing Harry knew about it was when he woke up lying on a bed in the hospital wing, with his arm firmly stuck to the scrawny, milk-white arm of Draco bloody Malfoy. 

Into You by @andithiel [28k]

There were many things that Harry had anticipated when arriving back at Hogwarts for his eighth year. Having his body switched with Draco Malfoy’s was not one of them.

An Issue of Consequence by @faith2wood [20k]

Draco has woken up in an alternate universe. Or he has woken up utterly insane. Nothing else can possibly explain why Harry Potter suddenly seems to think he’s Draco’s boyfriend.

It Takes a Village by Saras_Girl [25k]

Eighth year isn’t exactly going to plan. Harry is definitely not running away, Draco is definitely not impressed, and it’s almost definitely not going to stop raining.

Life is a Twice Written Scroll by lauren3210 [22k]

The new world order hasn’t been kind to Draco and his family, and he wishes it could all be different. So does Harry, although not for the same reasons. But as Draco works to fix the mistakes he made in the past, he finds his reasons for doing so changing in a way he never expected.

The Lip-Lock Jinx  by cassisluna [20k]

It’s a jinx that renders the victim mute, unless he/she serves the purpose of the jinx and kisses the person that they desire. It’s just Harry’s luck that he’s in love with Draco.

Love, Harry by Zzzara [26k]

Harry Potter keeps a huge secret: that scary thing he can’t tell anyone about. Until a mysterious penfriend changes his life, because he keeps a secret, too.

No Greater Victory by @dictacontrion​ [26k]

Back at Hogwarts after the war, a defeated Draco Malfoy is prepared to settle for life’s simpler pleasures: snark, sex, and Slytherin scheming. That is until Pansy, newly in possession of Malfoy Manor, offers to return his ancestral home. Just one condition: he has to win, and break, Harry Potter’s heart to get it. That’s no problem. Draco’s got this situation completely under control. Completely. At least until he doesn’t.

Pensieve For Your Thoughts by @fencer-x  [22k]

Ostracised from the more discerning social circles after the war, Draco decides to spend his final few months at Hogwarts attempting to ingratiate himself with the Boy Wonder in the hopes he might be able to salvage his reputation in the doing. But when has anything involving Draco trying to be Potter’s friend gone right, really?

Project (or Curse?) by venis_envy [21k]

In order to build trust and inter-house unity, the Ministry School Board has designed an obligatory N.E.W.T. project for the eighth year students. Paired off, each team will be assigned a Charmed puffskein and required to share a room with their ��families” throughout the term. If they all survive that long.

Recalibrate by Saras_Girl [20k]

Sometimes, you need to step back and think about things from a new perspective. Other times, you’ve just got to open your eyes to what you needed all along. HPDM 8th-year FILTH

Sparks by @annanother-thing [20k]

“I’m sorry,” Draco turned to him, “are we boring you?” Greg looked up. “No, I’m just hungry, and you’re taking far too long to just tell them that you and Potter are soulmates. Do you have to be this dramatic?” There was a moment of silence, before all hell broke loose. Harry didn’t know soulmates existed until he was fourteen. He wasn’t sure what he imagined it would be like, but he knew it wasn’t this. But that’s not to say he didn’t like it.

Strange Bathfellows by @bixgirl1  [27k]

It started with a bath.  Or a potions accident.  Or maybe it started before that, but who can tell anymore.   Featuring: Uncomfortable wanking, more comfortable wanking, mutual wanking, bath sharing, inappropriate betting, secret shagging, those secrets at Hogwarts that everyone knows, and oblivious Harry who knows one thing: he’s falling in love.

Symbiosis by fireflavored [20k]

sym·bi·o·sis (sĩm'bē-ō'sĩs) n. Biology A close, prolonged association between two or more different organisms of different species that may, but does not necessarily, benefit each member.

Then Comes a Mist and a Weeping Rain by @faith2wood [21k]

It always rains for Draco Malfoy. Metaphorically. And literally. Ever since he had accidentally Conjured a cloud. A cloud that’s ever so cross.

The Ties That Bind Us by @faith2wood [27k]

An accident leaves Draco and Harry bound tightly together. Literally.

Two Wands Make a Right by dannyfranx [21k]

Harry’s wand is playing up and Hermione thinks she knows the answer, but why does she have to be right all the time, why does Draco Malfoy have to be so god damn difficult and why is he wearing his tie backwards?

Your Destiny, My Destination by valinorean [20k]

Life is a series of events that shape your past and determine your future. Ten years after the war, Head Auror Harry Potter accidentally travelled back in time where he met 18-year-old Draco Malfoy.

I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I did!

[katsumox]

hihi!! idk if ur reqs are still open but :,) thinking about jason coming back from a really bad patrol, like he's all bloody and bruised and shit. cleaning him up even when he insists he's fine and kissing his bruises, just like a lot of comfort. sorry if this makes no sense LMAOO i've never requested something before!! tysm for reading have a nice day <33

thank u for the request my love !!!!!! reqs for jason r always open<333

this is roommate!verse because hngghhhhhh okay anyways !

“Oh honey, I’m home,” a sarcastic modulated voice rings out from the balcony. You don’t even have to look up from your spot on the couch to know it’s Jason.

“Don’t ask me where the redheads are,”he continues, “Thing one and two are off doing… fuck if I know.”

His voice is tight with irritation and poorly disguised pain as he all but limps into the living room.

Your eyes widen at his state before your mind settles into work mode.

“Shirt. Off now,” you say, jogging to the bathroom for the med kit stashed under the sink.

“No warm welcome, huh,” Jason teases as he tosses his helmet to the ground. He hisses as he tugs off his shirt, exposing the bruise-littered expanse of his musculature.

“I’m fine,” he rumbles, “No life threatening cuts or nothin’. Just…” he trails off with a sigh as you apply the cold antiseptic to his wounds.

He shuts himself up, despite the quiet whines of discomfort clawing at his throat. He watches you work as he fights the urge to snake a hand around your waist and keep you there, pressed snugly into him.

“Just one more,” you mutter, tapping at the gash near his jaw, “Wonder Woman bandaid?” You ask, looking up at him with those big doe eyes.

He grunts in confirmation, eyes flitting from your form to something off in the distance.

“Let me kiss it better,” You coo as you press the bandaid to his jaw.

Jason frowns as he looks around the apartment’s living room. It’s dark and empty, save for the two of you.

“Thought we couldn’t do the whole PDA thing in shared spaces,” he rumbles, a smirk playing on his lips, “You’re breaking the rules.”

“Fuck rules,” You hum, “No one gives a shit about rules.”

You press a kiss to Jason’s jaw, right next to the bandaid.

“Fuck rules,” Jason parrots, slinging his strong arms across your hips.

You kiss the J shaped scar on his face before standing on your tip toes to let your lips ghost the yellowing bruise under his eye.

He exhales, watching you intently as you press feathery kisses down his bruised neck and collarbones.

His eyes stay glued to your lips as you kiss the now-scarring wound on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Jason airily murmurs to no one in particular, “No one gives a shit about rules.”

[seethesin]

green eyed monster

pairing: Vampire!Hazel Callahan x F!Monster Hunter!Reader

tags/warnings: sexual content, hazel & reader are 18+, supernatural/vampire au, jealous!reader, teasing, blood kink, biting, praising, fingerfucking, clitoral stimulation (18+, mdni)

a/n: sequel to vampires everywhere! enjoy 😌

Ever since you met Hazel in her mausoleum, you couldn't get enough of her. It was against your nature to let her roam free, but how were you supposed to dispatch her when she was mouthing your cunt like it was the only thing keeping her on this earth? You never experienced a fraction of the pleasure she provided before and selfishly, you allowed whatever this... situationship was to continue.

"You know, this place was not what I was expecting."

For a bar dedicated to monsters, you were anticipating something more… monstrous. Instead, The Last Drop looked and felt like any nightclub you’ve had the pleasure of attending. Vampires, werewolves, ghouls, and everything in between coexisted here peacefully. No one was sloppy and miraculously, no one started a fight. You deferred your inquisitive gaze to Hazel, wordlessly asking for her validation of your observation.

Instead, she was bobbing her head along to some unnaturally sounding house music, grin wide as she nodded over the bartender. There were no words, just a cacophony of noises and beats that pumped through the sound system.

It wasn’t your place to judge her music taste, no matter how bombastic.

“Oh it’s great in here,” she replied joyfully, starting a tab for the both of you. She was still nodding her head around and if your circumstances were different, it would have been endearing.

Ironically, you two were under the guise of a ‘couple.’ More specifically, a vampire and her willing feeder. The idea of it made you gag, but it seemed like the best way for you to get in without being swarmed.

Hazel's arm draped loosely over your back, hand sprawled on your barstool to cage you to her side. Her actions could be read as either possessive or protective—both serving as a reminder that you were now in the belly of the beast. You didn’t resist and instead, leaned in closer.

“What do you want to drink?” Hazel asks and you shift your attention back to her and the undead bartender already reaching for two cups. His skin was deathly pale and his veins were completely visible. There were gashes on his arms and a chunk of his skull was missing. The thought of his bodily fluids accidentally dripping into your cup made you shudder. You looked away quickly, more focused on picking around the skin of your nails.

“Surprise me.”

Hazel nods, looking back at the bartender.

“Okay, Randy. Give me a bloody mary and whiskey sour.” You scrunch your nose, elbowing Hazel gently in the side.

“Whiskey sour?” you parrot incredulously. She begins to giggle before pulling you in closer. Her hand grips your thigh; a warning to those around you both as to who you came with and who you will be leaving with.

It makes your clit throb.

“Because you’re such a sourpuss.” You roll your eyes and Hazel takes your reaction as a tiny victory. "Loosen up!"

But that was the thing. You couldn’t.

You still had a job to do, one that required the vampire’s assistance. You were here to collect a bounty for a renowned werewolf named Nimue. The payout was too great to ignore, even after splitting it in half with Hazel. Thankfully through the grapevine a la The Last Drop, Hazel had a contact that knew more.

That contact was in the form of her ex-girlfriend.

To specify further, Hazel's werewolf ex-girlfriend, Stella-Rebecca.

Apparently, she knew everything there was to know about your target: what she liked, how she spoke, the demeanor she held. Her expansive knowledge would be appreciated, especially when a few million dollars was on the line.

"What type do ya want?" Randy's gravelly voice cuts through your thoughts and you bring your gaze between him and Hazel. "Or do you just want it from her?"

He gestures to you and you stare at them both. Suddenly, the insinuation becomes clear and you jerk back in surprise.

"You take your bloody mary with actual blood?"

Hazel deadpans to you, brows quirked upward.

"How else would I take my bloody mary?"

Randy cackles, delighted at your naivety. He presses a glass cup into a fountain behind the counter, filling it partially with coagulated blood.

"No antigens for you, eh, Hazel?" She smirks, shrugging simply as he adds vodka, juices, and a few sauces and spices you can't make out into the glass. He connects it to a shaker, shaking roughly before pouring it out into a cup.

"I'll take what I can get."

It only takes a minute or two more for both of your drinks to be finished. You drink yours easily, but can't help your curiosity as you watch Hazel suck down the nasty combination. A whiskey sour was definitely the way to go.

Back to business. "Alright, what does Stella-Rebecca look like?"

Hazel gives a throaty hum, putting her cup down.

"She's a brunette: short, curvy, and—oh."

"What?"

"She's uh, she's already here."

"What?" Quickly, you scan the bar around you for a woman with any of the traits Hazel described. "Where?"

"Right there." Hazel's hand is on your hip, guiding you towards the right where the door is.

Stella-Rebecca was a smokeshow.

She walked with an air of confidence. Her head was held high, as her black heels clicked on the hardwood floor. She wore a form fitting, flattering emerald green dress with a black clutch wrapped around her wrist. Her full face of makeup was immaculate and Hazel needed to tug you back to keep you from gaping like a lunatic.

“She’s your ex?” you ask in a high pitched whisper, peeling more laughter from the vampire’s throat.

“Yes ma’am.”

“She’s—” Incredible. The silent compliment hangs on your tongue, but Hazel didn’t have to read your mind to know what you were thinking. It makes her smile as she watches Stella-Rebecca slide into the empty barstool next to her.

“Oh my gosh, Hazel! It’s been like, forever since I’ve seen you!”

She leans forward, snatching Hazel into a hug by her shoulders. The tight grip makes Hazel's eyes go wide and you can't help but smirk. For a split second, you wonder which of them would win a fight, one-on-one.

Stella-Rebecca lets her go and immediately, her attention is on you. You anticipated a dirty look or a roll of her eyes, but instead, she flashed you a bright, toothy smile. Your heartbeat stutters—no wonder why Hazel dated her. She's pretty and nice.

"And who is this adorable thing?" She simpers, tone genuinely sweet as she leans closer to get a better look at you.

You introduce yourself quickly, taking mental note of how unnaturally her brown eyes glowed in the dim lighting. She goes to shake your hand after introducing herself and you can feel her manicured, claw-like nails against your skin. Past instances with werewolves never lasted this long and that fact alone unnerved you.

Hazel's grinning at your exchange and you suddenly feel very anxious. Your hands weave together, thumbs bouncing off one another as Stella-Rebecca turns her attention back to the vampire.

"I like her, Haze."

Haze. Something about the familiarity of that pet name makes your stomach turn. Your blood thumps against your ears and you bite down on the inside of your lip.

"There's a lot to like," Hazel muses charmingly, causing the other girl to giggle as if Hazel was referring to her. Flush crawls up your neck to the tips of your ears. You didn't want to admit it, but you were jealous of their relationship. Even if they weren't dating anymore, they acted as if they were picking up from where they left off.

"I appreciate you came by on such short notice, Stella-Rebecca," You interject quickly, catching both girls off guard. Hazel quirks a brow at you, staring intently into your eyes. After a moment, a ghost of a smile tugs on her lips.

She knows.

Blunt fingernails dig into your hip, pulling you even closer. Hazel wears a devil-may-care smile as she turns back to Stella-Rebecca.

"What can you tell us about Nimue?"

Thank god for Stella-Rebecca.

Seriously.

Every question you and Hazel asked she answered completely and swiftly. You weren't sure if there was a personal vendetta between her and Nimue, but Stella-Rebecca did not hold back with each answer she gave. With the information you collected through a series of voice memos, you felt more confident than ever in your mission.

However, it seemed like you held back the entire interrogation. Your jaw was perpetually clenched every time Hazel and Stella-Rebecca laughed over an inside joke or reminisced on old memories. Your palms ached from the constant half-moons you dug into your skin. The way they looked at each other held so much history that it made you nauseous.

You didn't speak during the car ride back to your home, nor did you say anything to each other once you stepped inside. Luckily for Hazel, you had already invited her in previously. She was able to follow you in without leaking blood from every orifice of her body.

Your carpets get to live another day.

"Is there uh," Hazel starts, watching as you settle onto your sofa and scroll through the dozens of voice memos you recorded from earlier this evening. "Anything you want to talk about?"

"Nope." Your lips purse at the end, popping audibly. "Maybe you should ask your girlfriend if she wants to talk."

Hazel approaches you slowly like one would a cornered animal. Her footsteps are light and you were convinced you saw her smile through your peripherical vision.

"You know I can read your mind, right?"

You don't respond.

"So that means I know what you're thinking."

"What am I thinking then, Hazel?" you finally snip, causing her grin to grow. You blink and she's already leaned forward, centimeters from your face. Her breath fans against your lips and reflexively, your tongue darts out to wet them.

She chuckles.

"You've been thinking about how much you want me," she purrs, her lids heavy as she stares at your mouth. She wasn't wrong and it makes you grit your teeth. Blush dusts your cheeks and you glare at her.

"Fuck you."

"We could if you'd stop being a sourpuss."

Your hands connect to Hazel's shoulders and you shove her down onto the sofa. You crawl on top of her, straddling her hips before leaning in to kiss her. Hazel's sneering into your kiss, swallowing your lips before flickering her tongue in between them.

The air around you turns ten degrees warmer around you and you paw at one another. Both of you shed your clothing, ripping layer upon layer from your bodies and discarding them on the floor.

Hazel is now sitting up, back pressed against the cushions as you remain mounted on her lap. Her mouth is between your breasts: kissing, biting, and sucking the delicate skin to the point of drawing blood. Her dexterous tongue laps it up eagerly, causing a string of moans to squeeze from your throat. Her dominant hand slips underneath the waistband of your underwear as her middle and ring fingers rub against your slit.

"Were you this wet all night?" she whispers against your chest and you don't respond.

Instead, you weave your fingers through her brown tresses. Once they're ingrained, you give her hair a firm tug, making her grunt. It's enough of an answer for her and she buries the digits easily into your cunt, humming in pleasure. You straighten, lifting your hips just enough to give Hazel more room.

"Good girl." Your eyes squeeze shut at the praise while another moan bubbles from your chest. "Can you continue being good for me tonight?"

You nod. Hell, she could have asked you to streak around your neighborhood in that husky voice and you would have nodded until your neck snapped.

As a reward, her fingers curl inside you, pressing against your fleshy walls and you whine. Your hips grind down further on Hazel's hand, greedily stealing as much friction as you can. Her other hand grips the fat of your ass, keeping you still while her lips meander up to your neck. A playful but stern bite comes soon after and you gasp, pushing your hips into hers. Hazel's fangs pierce your skin and her tongue washes over your skin to soothe the damage.

"Fuck, Hazel," you sputter, burying her face between your breasts as your knees begin to dig into her hips. You're so close. "Touch my clit too, baby."

Her laughter vibrates against your chest and she dutifully complies. You feel her thumb brushing against your clit as she continues to fuck you. The sensations begin to overwhelm you and involuntarily, your body starts to shudder.

"Like this, princess?" You don't trust your voice and instead nod, soon realizing that she couldn't see you doing so.

After a moment, you choke out a: "Feels so good."

"Then you'll love this." Her lips latch onto your nipple and your eyes roll back as soon as you feel her suck.

Hazel was right.

You cum with a shout, your body going rigid as you grip her hair for dear life. Her hand on your ass loosens so that you can wriggle your hips and ride out the remainder of your orgasm. Slowly, you find yourself coming back to reality. You hear Hazel's lips smack together as they pull away from your breast. A lazy, impish smile tugs at her lips as she stares up at you.

"Feeling better?"

You're still panting, eyes fluttering open as you hold onto Hazel's shoulders. Slowly, you lift your hips to allow Hazel to pull her hand back. Her slick-covered fingers are already in her mouth and unabashedly, you watch her suck them clean.

"Better," you agree, tilting Hazel's head up. She looks up at you and eagerly accepts the kiss you press on her lips. You last like that for a few moments longer before you break the kiss.

"You know," she starts and your brows arch expectantly. "If this is how you get when you're jealous—"

"Do not finish that sentence, Haze."

The both of you blink in surprise, not expecting the nickname to sound so natural coming out of your mouth. You can't stop yourself from blushing and Hazel cups your face, forcing you to look at her. She beams before peppering more kisses against your skin.

"You keep calling me that and I'll do anything you want."

"Anything?" Hazel nods curtly and your fingers wrap around her wrists. She watches you intently as you contemplate your next sentence. A wave of confidence washes over you suddenly and you look her right in the eyes.

"I want you to take me out after we find Nimue and collect her bounty."

Obviously, Hazel was not anticipating this request by the way her eyes widened. She recovers quickly, blinking away her shock before grinning dumbly.

"Like... on a date date?"

You can't help but giggle at the childish wonder in her voice.

"Yes, Haze, a real date."

She yanks you forward into an embrace and you realize now just how cold her bare body is. You shiver as her hands slide up your naked back, the steel of her rings searing your skin.

"I think I already have some ideas."

[nervocat]

“Reverberations Left Behind” (cws: talk + depictions of war, major loss, blood + war descriptions, morbid(?) descriptions of death, major spoilers for Jiyans companion quest - wc: 850, angst/platonic/romantic, gn reader)

Jiyan and Rover had made it to the Knell Square, face to face with the illusions of the soldiers, who were facing the bell of said square. Jiyan looks at the silhouettes, a solemn look in his gold eyes.

“Are these all.. Tacet Discords?”

“Nonsense!” Jiyan says, a bit harshly as he looks at the silhouettes ahead, face contorted in thought. Rover looks over to Jiyan, inquisitive.

“What on earth are they doing?” they ask, looking to Jiyan for a reply. The generals fist clenches.

“They're reenacting our first lesson for new recruits,” Rovers eyebrows furrow, lips pulled downward in a frown.

“What's this lesson about?” Jiyan goes on to explain how in the Knell Square, before the new recruits are allowed on the battlefield, they must pay tribute to the fallen soldiers.

He confessed that even when he himself first did this, he didn't know the meaning or significance of this. He now knows, all too well.

“My teammates weren't the only ones who died in that battle that were dear to me,” Jiyan continues, Rover curious as to who this was. “Their name, it was..” he swallowed hard, looking up at the soldiers again. “It was [name].”

“[name]?” Rover parrots, still giving Jiyan their full attention.

“Yes..” he seemed deep in thought, reliving some memories. “They died in my arms, I saw the moment when the life left their eyes. I remember it all too well,” Jiyan looks over to Rover, still deep in thought.

The way your deep red blood coated his outfit, the blood making his shirt stick to his skin. It was an uncomfortable feeling, having the blood of someone so dear to you seep into your skin, but it was nothing compared to the loss he felt in that moment and onwards, knowing that you would die, even if he did everything he could in his power to help you.

“[name], listen to me, you will make it.. I promise!” desperation wove its way into Jiyans voice as his eyes glazed over, the sight of you all bloodied as your weapon lay on the ground was horrific to look at. The sounds of other weapons clashing with the attacks of the Tacet Discords filled what would have been silence. Silence — that sounded nice right about now.

All you did was smile at him. You went into this battle not expecting to come out alive. “Jiyan, I'm sorry, but you and I both know my wounds are too severe to cure, even for you,” he just shook his head, tears finally spilling over.

“[name], I..” he was cut off by a gentle squeeze to his arm. Jiyan looked you in the eyes again, the ones that had shined so bright, now dim as your life reached for its death.

“Go out there and fight for me and your teammates, we'll be cheering you on.”

That was all you had said to him before your life was so cruelly taken from you so early. Jiyan had hugged your body for a bit, feeling how the warmth slowly left your body. He soon went to fight for you and the others, just as you had asked of him in your final moments.

“Jiyan? The soldiers are moving..” Jiyan comes back to reality as Rover points out that, indeed, the silhouettes of the soldiers were now moving.

They walk towards a cliff, soon to disappear. Jiyan and Rover look at each other, and decide to bid farewell to them one last time, but the blood curdling screams of those who died followed them. It was daunting, really, the cruel reinactnent of that battle.

They had done it, they had defeated the Tacet Discord, and the soldiers were free after ten years more of fighting — you and his teammates were free, and a TD outbreak was prevented. Jiyan reached his hand out, a glowing gold orb landing in his hand before it disappeared. He wonders if that was you. Jiyan balled his fist up once more, looking back to Rover.

“Let's go now, shall we? Show these collected Reverberations to the lab for studying,” Rover looks over and nods to Jiyan, moving to leave this ominous place. Jiyan walked slower behind, looking around the area.

He was glad you and the others were no longer trapped here.

Jiyan had invited Rover to plant a seed of his flower he had the lab make, Emortia, and he watched as they took care to plant the seed after he told them the deep meaning behind these flowers, and why he had them made.

He now stood alone on that cliff, hair swaying in the wind with the Emortias. He looked to an area where a more separate group of flowers swayed. Jiyan knew which one represented his teammates, and you.

He walked over to them, careful not to step on the other flowers, and knelt down beside the small group of flowers. Jiyan sighs.

“You're free now, [name]. You can finally rest like you deserve to — I miss you.” Jiyan looks to the setting sun, wondering where you rested now. He hoped that his Emortia flower would be planted by yours.

[ ★ notes - this is definitely one of my favorite fics I've written ever omg.. like guys?? Anyways yeah Jiyans companion quest made me love him sm more (but abt made me cry) and I HAD to write smth for him.. should probably start working on my requests tho huh 💀💀 I was tempted to keep it going but I think ending it like that was pretty good. I'm also actually rlly surprised this wasn't 1.0k words lol maybe I could've done the talk between Rover and Jiyan more detailed but I'm very very happy with this fic hehe :33 ]

[kaeyas-beloved]

a shot in the dark

Character: Wanderer

— his fourth and final betrayal…

CWs: gn!reader (no pronouns), ANGST, hurt/no comfort, death/murder, guns, Apocalypse AU, Wanderer is referred to as such and as Kunikuzushi

val’s no sympathy november masterlist

Started laughing like Light Yagami at work just thinking about the pain I’m about to inflict :)

“You promised me!”

Eyes the colour of a midnight sky - the same eyes you've spent the past few years memorizing, learning and getting lost in their depths during sleepless nights - bubble with tears.

At first glance his expression portrays anger, but you’ve known him long enough to know that there’s more to it. He’s angry, yes, but he’s not angry at you, not really. No, if anything he’s cursing out the world more, for doing him wrong once again, for torturing him by ripping you away from him. Everything he’s ever known feels as if it’s crumbling around him, the barely concealed tremble in his irises telling of the turmoil he’s fighting and losing to.

Denial quickly takes over, your body getting shaken by the shoulders. He starts pleading with you to cut the act, that the joke isn’t funny and never was. Ideas and theories cloud his mind; they say if you cut off the infected part of the body in time you can stop the transformation from human to zombie.

Yet, as he grasps your arm in a firm but not bruising grip, all it takes is one look at the bite on your forearm to know there is no saving you, not with how bloody and discolored the skin around it is. This is the end.

A soft sniffle echoes in the quiet night, his voice softer than before, the note of defeat unmistakable, "You… you promised…"

You did, and faced with the reality that you can't keep that promise, you wrap your arms around him. Whispers of hushes and apologies fill his ear; you're sorry for not being more careful, for acting before thinking, for leaving him alone in this shithole of a world. There will never be enough words or sentences in all the languages to convey the agony you feel at what you're putting him through.

Even though you pull away from him you keep a firm hand on his cheek; you have to make sure he's looking at you when you say what has to be said.

A broken smile appears on your face, your eyes darting all over him, committing each detail to memory, "You're not going to like what I have to say next…"

His reaction is immediate, tone all bark and no bite, "then don't say it at all! Fuck, why didn't you ask me to come along!? Then you could've saved that little girl, I would've dealt with the monsters and you'd be fine right now!"

For a moment you remain quiet; there's truth in his outburst, but you were the one in charge of scavaging today. Your group had scouted a particular place for a few days; no one had taken anything and the volume of zombies was near to none, all that was needed was one person to go raid the place, and you were the lucky sucker.

A tear slips down your face; it’s not like you want to say what comes next, it’s more of a need. As much as you hate to think it, everything from that moment on was business.

Pulling back fully, you reach for his limp hand while stretching to unclamp a gun from the holster on your waist. Anyone with a brain knew what you were about to say, and he didn't like it one bit, eyes sharpening into a glare. Retching his hand from you, Wanderer steps back, shaking his head vehemently.

“No.” He’s firm on his stance one the matter, voice deadly serious as he looks at the weapon you hold out to him. He won’t; he can’t. It takes you parroting the words he said to you before for him to even hear you out. all it takes is a second to stand in front of him again, setting the cool, heavy object in his shaking palm.

"You promised me that if this ever happened, you'd end my life before I turned." In one big step you’re in front of him again, setting the cold object in his shaking palm. Suddenly it feels like he’s holding the weight of tons.

“God I wish I could kiss you right now… I want to so, so bad,” you whisper, leaning your forehead against his, your noses brushing. You push the silencer attachment into his other hand, "but I don't want to infect you, so this little contact we have will have to do."

"I love you. I love you so much and I never want you to forget that. My dear Kunikuzushi..." Tears roll down your cheeks freely now as you gently rub under his eyes, “please, do this for me. I don’t want to hurt anyone…”

You’re hurting me, he thinks, but deep down he knows this must be done. It’s what you want.

He doesn’t say much as he nods, grabbing into your wrist again. This time it’s not with the urgency or hope that things could still be salvaged; this time it’s with the deep rooted need to comfort you, “I know you love the stars… I think it’s only right that you get to see them for all they are one last time.”

You’re silent as he drags you to a wide open clearing, the grass reaching just below your knees. The tiny gasp you let out was involuntary, as every time you see the night sky it steals your breath away. Even when you’ve seen them a thousand times in this very spot, they never fail to let you escape from your current reality. How fitting… the perfect place to forget the impending end.

Wanderer is deadly silent beside you as he screws on the silencer, refusing to look at you. He knows if he does he’ll fall in love with your wonder filled gaze all over again and back out in a heartbeat.

While looking around and taking in each twinkle of light, you hear a murmur from beside you, barely intelligible. You hum, asking him to repeat himself.

“I love you too.” He says clearly that time, “I’m sorry for not saying it enough.”

Smiling softly at him, you cup his cheek again, “I know. It’s alright, you didn’t have to say it for me to know you love me.”

In an instant you’re pulled into another hug - your last, you bitterly realize - and you wrap your arms around him without a second thought. God how he wants to kiss you too, he wants to say a proper goodbye.

“Go enjoy that stars…” he whispers to you instead, reluctantly letting you slip away from him.

Kunikuzushi was a sharp shooter, known for always hitting his target. It was a trait he took pride in, but as he aims for the back of your head now… he doesn’t know exactly how to feel, knowing what will happen, able to picture the next few minutes in his mind.

Eyes the colour of a stormy night follow you as you walk into the middle of the field. Silently he counts to thirty, then continues to count. By time he reaches fifty he sees your shoulders ease up, your head tilting this way and that, no doubt looking for constellations.

He chose then to pull the trigger, feeling sick to his stomach as he watches your silhouette fall, knowing that you won’t be rising next to him in bed come tomorrow morning.

Tag list (both regular and event exclusive): @spoopy-fish-writes // @that-enby-alien // @xenuuu // @kaeyaloml // @mariposa666haruka // @quackquackmfs // @kunikuzushiii // @genshin-impact-writings // @ventisweetheart // @lordbugs // @leena-shi // @ari-the-wr1ter // @xiaos-wife // @milkwithspiceyicecubes // @stygianoir // @francisnyx

+

@kaiserkisser // @multipleshadesofblue // @moloteco-real // @kithewanderingme // @scaramood // @kochothehoe // @ii-lily2 // @esuz

[ddejavvu]

hi again!! perhaps for multiverse monday a spiderman!au with james potter where since he always busy fighting crime and stuff he keep’s showing up late to date nights with reader so he’s kind of forced to confess why and reader is completely okay with it <33 (could even be like ‘yeah i know jamie you left your suit out on the floor last night’) thank you love!!

today is multiverse monday, send me any au you can think of! :)

--

If James had really wanted to keep his secret, perhaps he shouldn't have come in through the window, perhaps he should have used the front door. But he barrels in through the open window anyways, panting and huffing and puffing, "Angel!"

"James!" You parrot his tone, eyes wide as he crashes onto the end of your bed. His hand is ashy, and the black dust rubs off on the fabric.

"I'm sorry," He pants, "I was- I need to tell you something, I didn't mean to miss movie night! I promise I'll make it up to you, I- I just need to confess."

"Calm down," You urge, taking his ash-stained hand and brushing your fingertips over the stuff, "Take your time, Jamie, I'm not mad."

"But I feel bad," He coughs, the sound thick and heavy in his chest, "I- I'm just gonna say it. I- I know this sounds crazy," He grips your wrists with wide eyes, and for a moment he does look it, "I'm Spider-Man."

You blink once at him, unphased, "I know."

His brows furrow and he squints, "Huh? What do y'mean, 'I know'?"

"I mean, I know," You shrug, "You're not very good at keeping secrets, Jamie. Little bottles labeled 'web fluid' go through the wash in your pockets, you just crawled in through the sixth story window, and you left your suit on the floor of the closet last night."

"You know. So you're- so you're not mad?" He's barely able to get his mouth to work, chest still heaving and lips agape.

"Not that you've missed movie night," You shrug, "We can watch a movie whenever we want. About the web fluid thing, though, if one of those bottles pops open in my washing machine ever again, I'll become a supervillain and fight you."

You glare at him with an impressively vicious furrow of your brows, and he's more scared in that moment than of any of the bad guys he's fought in the past.

"Okay," He breathes, an incredulous smile overtaking his features, "Okay, that's- this is good! This is great," He surges forwards to press a kiss to your lips, one that's only slightly bloody, "I- You know!"

"I know," You affirm, smearing the red substance off of James's cut, "And I also know that you need a shower and some bandages. You hop in, and I'll get the first aid kit. Deal?" You pat his thigh, and he nods breathlessly.

"Deal. I- Thank you," He kisses your temple as he darts for the bathroom, and you hear his voice echo around the tile, "My god, you know!"

[arliedraws]

Drabble: James and Sirius are tortured together

Just a little Saturday whump. A special thank-you to @blacleria and @fiendishfyre for suggesting and supporting the idea of Prongsfoot being tortured together ☺️

Somehow James starts talking about cannibalism, as one does in times of stress, of course.

“Sirius,” James whispered. “Are you awake?”

There was a short grunt. An affirmative. It was a relief to hear it, to know he wasn’t alone, but James also wished Sirius would simply sleep if only to escape their predicament for a few moments. The weight of Sirius’s head dropped heavily onto James’s shoulder.

They had left the gag in Sirius’s mouth and the blindfold on James. It was useful to their tormenters because Sirius couldn’t warn James of what was coming or who was about to receive pain next, forcing him to suffer the anticipation of James’s screams before James realized what was about to happen. James had to applaud the cleverness of something so simple, but he and Sirius were quick to learn a new language. Their hands were tied behind their backs, lashed with cords around their wrists, their fingers growing numb. Sirius would squeeze his hand once if it they were about to hurt James next but twice if they intended to hurt Sirius. When the Death Eaters had gone from the room, one squeeze also meant yes, but two meant no. And then sometimes Sirius pumped three times in a way that held no concrete meaning that James found himself parroting whenever he started to lose hope that they would make it out alive.

The Death Eaters insisted that the point of all of this was to turn one of them, but James knew better. It was Bellatrix Lestrange’s chance to humiliate Sirius before he died. She wanted to show Sirius what a fool he was for abandoning his family, for sullying his blood, for giving it all up for a bloodtraitor like James Potter. She wanted him to repent. But first, he had to suffer, which meant that if anyone were going to die in this place, it was going to be James, and if his instincts were correct, it was going to be bloody. Bellatrix had already cut into James’s torso and his arms to see him bleed—she had swiped her finger through James’s blood and smeared it over Sirius’s lips, urging him to taste what happened when good blood was defiled by a Mudblood.

But the time to die had not come yet. For now, they were alone again, breathing raggedly, their shoulders pressed together. Waiting.

“How’d I taste, then?” James croaked.

Sirius made a sound of confusion in his throat.

“My blood,” he clarified. “Did you like it?” Sirius growled, but James chuckled anyway. “C’mon, it’s funny. Squeeze once if you think it was good, twice if it was too salty.”

Instead, Sirius crushed his fingers. James grinned, resting the back of his skull against Sirius’s shoulder.

“If you were to pair it with a fine wine—”

Through the gag, Sirius snarled at him to shut up.

“What was that, Padfoot? You said a cabernet?” James turned his head and inhaled the smell of Sirius’s hair. “Or maybe a good whisky. Right, so here’s another question for you: would you eat me if I died and you were starving? Hypothetically, of course. Let’s say we were stranded in the middle of nowhere without food and I died before you. Would you eat me?”

James grinned weakly as a string of curses pushed through the wad in Sirius’s mouth. His swears were muffled but he made his fury obvious.

“No, don’t answer right away,” said James. “Remember the story about the Muggles whose airplane crashed on that mountain in South America? They were all friends, right? They promised each other they could eat their bodies so the survivors wouldn’t starve. So there it is, Paddy. You’ve got permission to eat me if you run out of food. In fact,” he added, “if you didn’t eat me, I’d be offended.”

Sirius began to wriggle in earnest, jerking at the bonds that tied their hands together. It was no use—their legs were bound to their chairs, and they had learned long ago that the chairs couldn’t be budged anyway. And even if they managed to untie themselves, the door was locked.

“Sirius, stop,” James snapped. “There’s no point. We’ll figure out another way.”

Blindfolded (which seemed rather unnecessary since his glasses had flown off ages ago), James failed to see that Sirius was crying. He could only feel that Sirius was trying to pull out of the ropes that cinched the two of them together, but now it was obvious that he was holding back sobs.

“Shh, Sirius, it’s all right,” James urged. His chest was tight as he heard Sirius struggling to breathe. “This—this’ll be over soon.”

It didn’t calm Sirius at all. He was saying something, but James didn’t understand.

“Sirius, stop moving. You’re making my fingers numb. Listen, to me,” he demanded, and Sirius stilled. “If you lean your head back and turn your face away, I could try getting the gag off with my teeth. Can you do that?”

Sirius squeezed his hand once. James felt him do as he was told, and James craned his neck as far as it would go, burying his face against soft hair. It felt a bit stupid fumbling around and feeling for the strip of cloth with his nose, but soon, he’d found it and sank his teeth in, wrenching down to get it past Sirius’s ears. Pain radiated around his neck in the awkward position. James grunted and pulled until finally it loosed; he heard Sirius spit out the wad of cloth that had been stuffed in his mouth.

“Fuck you, James,” Sirius rasped. “I’m not…I’m not going to eat you.”

James was sweating from his effort. He laughed, resting back against Sirius. To hear that voice again, desperate and miserable as it was, made him feel safe. He pumped their entwined hands three times, unable to find the words to convey his relief. Sirius signaled back, sighing.

“I suppose you could eat me if it came to it,” Sirius murmured.

“But you wouldn’t eat me. Reckon my blood’s dirty now?”

Sirius snorted. “Mine’s filthier than yours.” Then he huffed and nestled back against James, his breath warm against James’s ear. “Fine, if it’s what you want, I’ll eat you. But only if you swear you’d eat me if I died first.”

“Of course I would. I’m honored you’d let me, Padfoot.”

“Better you than the worms.”

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

But he isn't only calling for suicide bombing against Israelis.

It must be kept in mind that all of these crimes and atrocities, culminating in this genocide would not have been possible without the mainstream media propagandizing and parroting the false Israeli narrative for decades, along with the despicable politicians who continue to support this genocide. So when revenge is sought, it must be exacted against everyone who aided and abetted these slaughters, whether they are politicians, propagandists, influencers, or others. These include the obvious ones, such as Genocide Joe and Bloody Blinken, but include many others such as Jake Sullivan ("We do not believe what is happening in Gaza is a genocide") and Lindsey Graham for example, who called for nuclear bombs to be dropped on the 2.3 million people of Gaza. Others include Matt Miller, Nir Muller, Stuart Seldowitz, Michael Rapaport, James Whale & Piers Morgan and Julia Hartley-Brewer (TalkTV), Dana Bash (CNN), and many more. Do they all think that somehow they are invincible, untouchable or unreachable? Don’t they realize that once this global army of recruits begins its work, these vile, despicable, heartless, soulless individuals will be easily found and held accountable with the same level of mercy they showed towards the children of Gaza? Anything less than this form of justice is no longer acceptable.

That is a direct call for all anti-Israel protesters to start murdering anyone who knows that there is no genocide in Gaza.

He is threatening me. He is probably threatening you. He is calling on "pro-Palestinian" activists to blow up , stab and shoot most Americans, most Europeans, and a great number of Arabs. 

Audeh is very proud of this article. He asked his Facebook followers to help it go viral.  

Well, I'm doing my part to let the world know that a supposed human rights activist calls to murder anyone who disagrees with him. 

[jinkicake]

Jealousy, Jealousy. 

Scaramouche has to process betrayal all over again. 

A/N: I decided to combine the two scara jealousy posts into one big post so it can be read all together >:-)! I had to write desperate (pathetic) scara, i truly am sorry. im tots excited to pull for him, i have 150 wishes for him!   

WC - 2.3k

TW // hints at noncon,, pyscho scara,, verbal abuse,, crazy scara,, yandere scara 

~~~

Scaramouche didn’t notice it at first.

He didn’t predict that one of the guards he personally hand-picked to protect you would end up being soft for you as well. There were clear instructions for none of the four personnel to speak with you, no matter if you spoke to them. Their jobs were clearly stated as to watch you and guard you.

Anything else that you needed was something Scaramouche himself could personally deal with.

How couldn’t he have noticed it before? The lingering stares, the fact that as of late on multiple occasions the guard would return later than the rest. Scaramouche feels his entire body melt into molten lava, he’s fuming inside as he cracks a dent in his wooden desk.

He’ll make you both pay for this affair, the guard will die and you will suffer until you’re begging him to take you back.

The first part had already been dealt with, the guard was long gone in a dark cell the second Scaramouche had even begun to be suspicious. He remembers the fear in the bright eyes of his subordinate, he took pleasure in torturing him until his body could no longer take it.

No matter how much the man denied the allegations of the affair, Scaramouche didn’t believe it.

“Wake up, wench,” Scaramouche is not light with his anger as he swings open the door to your bedroom. The room disgusts him and he remembers how he gave in to your begs for a private space. He was a fool back then, he won’t ever make that mistake again. How many times was that guard in here? How many times had he laid in your bed?

Scaramouche takes pride in how you jolt out of your sleep, flinching against the blankets. Your startled appearance is tinted with the effects of heavy slumber and it takes a few blinks for you to notice the man in the room. The pungent irony smell grabs your attention before Scaramouche’s bloody appearance.

You know for a fact that the blood isn’t his.

“W-What’s wrong?” You try to keep your voice quiet and level, seeing that he is as active as an open minefield. Navigating Scaramouche in such an angered state is the most dangerous thing you have ever done.

“I’m fine.” He replies, eerily calm but the slight twitch in his eye gives his unhinged state away. “You should be asking your little boyfriend what is wrong,” The way he spits out the word boyfriend, lacing the world with venom, makes you flinch.

“My boyfriend?” You parrot back, tilting your head slightly in confusion. The way you feign innocence is enough to push Scaramouche over the edge as he grabs your wrists tightly in his hands.

“Your beloved guard, you filthy whore,” He grins at the thought of the man now being thrown into a prison where he will never see the light of day. His initial plan to kill the other man was stuffed deep into his draw when he thought about how he could make him suffer every single day, death would be too kind.

Your eyes widen in realization, heart dropping at his threat.

“What did you do to Ivano?” You make the mistake to glare up at him, anger now fueling your entire body. “Whatever you think you know, it’s wrong.”

His hand lets go of your wrists, rising high and you’re sure that he is going to slap you until his hands fist in your hair and he presses his face mere inches away from yours.

“I know that you’re a slut, a whore, unloyal to me and this marriage.” The loud boom of his voice only serves to make you angrier and you kick your limbs to try to get him off of you. If you had been in a clearer state of mind then perhaps you would have seen the tears in his lashline or the way his body was shaking with betrayal.

“Are you implying that I have cheated on you? I have done no such thing!” You yell back into his face, hands now roughly pushing at his shoulders.

“Don’t lie to me,"

“You believe that I cheated on you with Ivano?! The one who is married to Tonia, my friend? You’re a fucking fool!”

Scaramouche doesn’t listen to your reasons, he refuses to as he pushes your thighs widely apart and settles in between your legs.

“Your pathetic words mean nothing to me. I will teach you to be loyal, I’ll fuck it into your brain until it is the only thing you know. You will enjoy this.”

Scaramouche’s anger is something you’ve always been able to handle well. At times when he explodes in his expressive manner, you’re there to help ground him. Never before have you been the target of his anger, a mere pinpoint for him to release all of his frustrations on. 

He never gets angry with you, not like this. 

Even in your frozen state with your fear-clouded mind, you can still feel how his hands tremble with uncertainty. Each time the Harbinger had touched you before in the past, he did it with no regard for your wellbeing. He took and took until he was tired, ripping clothes and holding you down with his sheer strength. This time, your softest of movements cause him to falter in his steps. 

“You love me. Say that you love me.” His eerily leveled voice is hinted with desperation, clipping the ends of his words as he stares expectedly at you. Scaramouche waits for your answer while gripping your thighs painfully tight, pushing the muscles apart. “Tell me!” His voice roars throughout the empty room, bouncing off the walls and causing the room to shake. He needs to hear it, has to hear it. 

“I know that you love me, unloyal whore.” Scaramouche murmurs this more to himself as his voice drops to a more quiet tone, now to a whisper. “You love me, love me, love me,” His chest rises and falls with each breath, the sound of his erratic breathing is the only noises being produced in the room. 

There’s not a single noise outside because all of the guards are down. Each one is beaten and lying on the floor against the wall from where the Harbinger threw them. You’re all alone with him. 

The more Scaramouche touches you, the more you start to squirm. You ache and kick your legs as he begins to kiss your neck but your strength is nothing compared to his (even when weakened). He pins your wrists to your sides and continues his ministrations, thin lips creating harsh marks on your skin. His touch is bruising and nothing about this is delicate. 

“Dear, please listen,” You try to explain yourself, you swallow your pity and bite your tongue to avoid telling him off but the Harbinger ignores you. It seems that no amount of pet names or your kindness can get through to him just yet. He growls and nips at your skin in an effort to get you to shut up. “you must understand, I was merely helping Ivano-”

“I know exactly what you were doing with him, you were spreading your legs and letting him dirty you up.” Scaramouche pulls away to glare down at you, grimacing at his own words. It’s almost as if your touch has started to burn him with how he winces under each flex of your limbs. “None of that matters now, it will be fine.” 

There’s no attempt for you to grasp the situation as it slips between your fingers, there is nothing you can do to try and fix this. He doesn’t let you even as he is falling apart.

You know everything about him is off despite how hard Scaramouche is trying to appear normal. It is seen in the way his lips press together to avoid trembling, and how his eyes nearly shake under the stress of the weight he is feeling. Never did you imagine that you could affect him like this.

You’re causing him to break. 

“I know what to do,” Scaramouche’s chest rises and falls with each heavy breath, he’s almost panting as he moves to settle between your legs. The wave of your betrayal drowns him the more he touches you and Scaramouche tries to remind himself that fucking you is nothing new. He struggles to remove your panties and fumbles with the material against his thins fingertips. His eyes dart between your underwear and the sheets, he looks everywhere but your face. 

“Nothing happened between me and-” You want to clear this up, you have to clear this miscommunication. Scaramouche has other plans and digs his nails so harshly into your thighs that the crescent shape will be left there for days, bruised and bloody. 

“Say his name again and I will bite your tongue off.” He doesn’t look at you when he utters his threat, instead, he keeps his eyes low and his vision hidden behind his lashes. “Stay still and quiet, whore.” 

Listening to exactly as he demands would be a lot easier if his voice wasn’t so weak and if his conviction wasn’t so frail. 

Scaramouche fists your panties within his hand and tears the material off of your body, letting it snap against your skin to finally get rid of it. The more he forces himself, the harder it becomes for him. At the sight of you splayed out for him, at his mercy, bottom bare and (unwillingly) submissive to his touch, Scaramouche finally begins to tremble all over. 

His shoulders shake with his overwhelming nerves and his eyes drop to the sheets, darting all over the place except for you and your body. 

“I hate you,” He murmurs weakly. Slowly, he presses his forehead to the sheets on the other side of your thigh, his hands fist tightly as he pounds them against the bed. “I HATE YOU.” The anger from before has come back stronger than ever as he moves in a flash to hover over top of you again. His finger is pressed into your chest, accusing you of your infidelities as he screams in your face. “You’ve ruined me.”

Despite your current dislike for the man, despite all the insults he has thrown in your face and all the harm he has inflicted on you, you have no choice but to hold him together. You don’t want to hate him. 

You gently wrap your arms around his shoulders and hug the sixth Harbinger. Scaramouche tries to fight you, he thrashes under your touch but ultimately gives in and falls into your chest. 

He doesn’t deserve your kindness, he doesn’t deserve your pity but, you can’t help but give it to him. There is a part of you that wants to ease his hurt, to soothe his ache even if he doesn’t deserve it. 

“I took an oath on our wedding day,” You quietly tell him and softly run your fingers along his shaking back. “to be honest and faithful to you for the rest of my days.” Scaramouche’s fingers twitch against your bicep, bluntly digging into your arm as he awaits your next words. “I wouldn’t do this to you, no matter how much you must want me to.” 

Scaramouche pushes against you again, this time placing his palms flat against either side of your head before moving to look you in the eyes. 

“Why would I want something like that?” He snarls at you, lips curling in anger but you can see the red tinting his eyes and the streaks on his cheeks. “You’re an idiot, a good for nothing partner who can’t stay loyal to me.” You gingerly lift your hand to his face to cup his cheek. 

“Why would I cheat on you?” Your calm voice makes his eyes widen and the honesty in your eyes slowly puts his broken heart back together. “Tonia’s birthday was two days ago, my dear. As her friend, I helped pick out a gift.” There is a method to your words and how you purposely avoided the guard’s name so as to not upset your husband any further. 

Scaramouche’s face transforms from anger to something of disbelief, it’s as if he’s grimacing with the way his face scrunches together. He dips his head and allows his hair to cover his face entirely. 

“Is that all?” He whispers and waits for your reply. Scaramouche presses his lips together to stop himself from trying to poke holes in your excuse because, for once, he wants to believe you. The Harbinger waits and pretends that your answer won’t have a catastrophic effect on the rest of his life. 

“It is true.” You quietly murmur back as your thumb starts to stroke his cheekbone. The tenderness of the action causes your husband to freeze above you, eyes widening in shock at how gentle you are being with him. He watches as your face morphs from that of tenderness to a frown. The purse of your lips makes his breath hitch. “Do you really hate me?”

It’s Scaramouche’s turn to frown now. He mulls over his words, eyes staring holes into your sheets as he thinks and thinks. 

He hates how weak you make him. 

He hates how dependent he is on you. 

He hates your stupid smile and your explosive hair and your pathetic laughter. 

He hates how much he loves you. 

His hands find your hips again and gently squeeze against your sides. Scaramouche is a prideful figure and he’s not sure he could ever confess his love to you verbally after the embarrassing hurt he just suffered (at the fault of his own hand). But, he can show you. 

“After this, you’ll never ask such a ridiculous question ever again.”

The two of you will be alright, you’re sure, as alright as you could ever be. 

taglist - @ilumination @etherisy @eliciana @lumid0rk

[the-broken-pen]

“We absolutely should not be doing this,” the hero whispered, but there wasn’t any heat to it. The other end of the line rustled as the villain laughed.

“There are a lot of things we shouldn’t be doing. Namely, I shouldn’t commit felonies, you shouldn’t talk to a felon…” their friend trailed off.

This time, the hero was the one who laughed. Outside, a bird began to chirp with the sunrise, and the villain sighed.

“Time distance.”

“Time distance,” the hero agreed, and by god if the miles weren’t a wound in itself.

“You should sleep,” the villain murmured. The hero hummed.

“Probably, yeah.”

Neither of them hung up.

“If I promise to call tomorrow, will you go to bed, please? For me?”

The hero sniffed, eyes heavy as the sun peeked through their blinds.

“Promise?”

“Pinkie.”

The hero slumped backwards. “I won’t hang up though.”

The villain laughed, softly, with an affection the hero didn’t want to think about.

“I’ll do the heavy lifting, once again,” but the hero knew they smiled as they said. The line clicked off.

—————————

“Hey, Sunshine. Committing nefarious acts of kindness and good deeds, I take it?”

“Hey,” the hero was breathless, hand pressed against their side. It came back bloody.

Any humor dropped from the villain’s voice in an instant.

“You’re hurt.”

The hero managed a pathetic laugh, flinching.

“Just a little.”

“It doesn’t sound like a little.”

The hero eyed their wound, swallowing.

“Absolutely just a little.”

“It’s a good thing you’re the kid of a hero, because love, you absolutely suck at lying.”

The hero tried to pretend something didn’t warm in their stomach at the endearment.

“I have…bandages. And antiseptic. And some good old natural dirt to rub into it if all else fails.”

The villain sighed on the other end of the line, and the hero knew they were rubbing their brow. For some reason, despite the pain, it made the hero grin.

“I’m fine,” they promised, and when the villain stayed silent, they said it again. “I’m fine.”

“If you die I’ll be mad at you.”

“Fairly certain that is the wrong sentiment for a villain to have towards a hero—“

“Has the bleeding stopped?”

The hero slapped some tape around the edge of the gauze, blood still dried around the edges.

“Yes.”

The relief was palpable.

“Good. Go to bed.”

“You’ll call again?”

“Promise.”

The hero smiled.

“Pinkie.”

The villain hung up.

—————————

“You wouldn’t happen to have a flamethrower I could borrow, do you?”

The hero blinked, holding the phone away from their face for a moment.

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, don’t be, I just need one,” the villain snorted, and a loud crash sounded in the background.

“What on earth are you doing?” Concern rolled in the hero’s gut. The villain laughed.

“You’re going to want plausible deniability sunshine.”

“Right,” they paused. “But why a flamethrower?”

“It has flames, it throws them, what else could I ask for in an object?”

“I can throw flames.” Even though the villain couldn’t see it, the hero let a spark flicker on their finger tips.

“And again,” the villain’s voice lowered. “What more could I ask for?”

The hero didn’t have a response to that, but the villain somehow, like they always did, knew that.

“Any bruises I should know about?”

“And what would you do about them? You live on the other side of the country,” the hero teased.

“I can steal a fighter jet in less than half an hour.”

The hero blinked at the seriousness in the villain’s tone. They laughed, nervously.

“Please don’t do that.”

The villain sighed. “You ruin my fun.”

“I haven’t arrested you, so I think that should get me brownie points.”

“You live on the other side of the country,” the villain parroted.

“I could get there faster than a fighter jet,” the hero said. The villain snorted again.

“Will you—“

“Call again? Pinkie.”

The hero smiled. “Promise.”

The villain hung up.

—————————

The hero picked up the phone on the third ring, smiling.

“Hey trouble maker, what’s—”

All they got in response was a pained wheeze.

“Villain,” the hero said, gut plummeting. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” the villain bit out, breath short. “I’m okay.”

“You don’t sound okay.”

The villain gave something that was either a laugh or a sob.

“Mhm.”

“What’s going on,” their voice broke, and the villain fell silent.

“It’s going to be okay,” they murmured. And the hero knew.

Innately, in a painful, wretched way, they knew.

“My dad is there.”

Their dad, the superhero. Their dad, who had forbidden them from ever speaking.

Their dad, who wanted the villain, their villain, dead.

The villain made a quiet noise of ascent.

“I’m coming—”

“You won’t make it.”

The hero stilled.

“How bad is it?” Their hands were shaking. They couldn’t find their suit, why couldn’t they find their suit—

“Too fast for a fighter jet,” the villain tried, voice too light and wet with tears.

The hero slammed a drawer closer, throwing open the door to the basement, searching for something, anything.

“I can be faster,” they grit out, breathless. Their chest hurt.

“Not that fast.”

“Please,” the hero sobbed, and on the other end of the line, the villain did too.

“Don’t do this to me.”

“I don’t want to,” the villain swore. They coughed, and it was a deathly thing.

Something slammed in the background on the end of the line, and the hero’s fingers clenched around the phone.

“What was that?”

The villain let out a pained whine, phone crackling as they shifted away, before their voice came over the speaker again.

“I’ll call again tomorrow.”

The hero’s face was wet.

“Promise?”

The villain let out a small sob, but they still sounded like they were smiling, soft with affection.

“Pinkie.”

The hero didn’t mean to say what came next.

“I love you.”

The villain didn’t even pause, breath hitching. “I love you too.”

The line crackled.

“Sunshine, I need you to do something for me now,” the villain rasped, voice choked with pain and tears and love and fear. “I need you to hang up.”

The hero forgot how to breathe.

“No—”

“Please,” the villain took a sharp breath through their nose, and it sounded painful. “Just this once. I can’t do it this time.”

“Villain,” the hero began, but the villain cut them off as something crashed in the background once more.

It sounded like a building falling.

It sounded like the hero breaking, too.

“Sunshine,” the villain pleaded. “Just once. I’ll-I’ll call you back. I swear.”

They could both taste the lie.

The hero sniffed.

The villain sobbed.

And for the first time, the hero hung up.

The villain never called them back.